Summary: For every beginning there is an end.
How the Malfoy Wealth Was Won (London, 1860)
When I Ruled the World (France, 1917)
Portent (London, 1943)
The Greatest Generation (London, 1945)
It Came Upon a Midnight Clear (New York, 1959)
The Ill-Made Knight (Yorkshire, 1960)
The Setting Sun (Surrey, 1963)
Conviction (London, 1974)
(Baby Don't) Fear the Reaper (London, 1979)
A Woman's Place (Surrey, 1979)
Chronology (Surrey, 1980)
Spy Games (London, 1981)
Only the Dead Have Seen the End of War (Surrey, 1982)
A Handful of Dust (Surrey, 1994)
He first learned of his father's illness and death from reading Abraxas Malfoy's obituary, sent to him by the staff of the Prophet. Lucius had final approval of anything that mentioned the Malfoy name. He found this particular piece rather soft, and perhaps that was why; perhaps some young and naive reporter fancied that flattering Abraxas was the way to Lucius's confidence. It glossed over Abraxas's years with Grindelwald and subsequent trial for war crimes as youthful indiscretion, and failed entirely to mention the illegitimate child he was purported to have sired on his cousin, and the indictment (though not arrest) for the murder of Lucius's mother and her lover.
In fact, it was very little more than a list of benevolences and academic papers, as if Abraxas had devoted a century to charity and writing, instead of spending fifty years running the Ministry and fifty years playing at Divination. Lucius corrected it, sparing no sin, real or imagined, that Abraxas had committed or been rumored to have committed or might possibly have considered committing. The list, which ranged from an affaire with Grindelwald to atrocities rivaling Lord Voldemort's, was so extensive that eventually the nib of Lucius's quill snapped under the strain.
Looking up with a start, he realized that he was still at the breakfast table, and that the Prophet's owl, his wife and his son were all watching him closely and with no small alarm. “My father has passed on,” he said, when it became apparent that his audience was waiting for words. “Damn him.” It was as fitting an obituary for Abraxas as he could have come up with. It would make a fitting inscription for his tomb. “See to this, please.” He passed the parchment to Narcissa.
And then he went into his study and closed the door, and every window and every mirror and glass and plate in the house shattered and fell in pieces on the floor. It was all he could do not to shatter every breakable thing in the county. The effort of it made his hands shake, and he did not dare touch his wand.
His father had been a monster, and one didn't weep for monsters. The thing in his throat he could not swallow was not grief. What he had felt for Abraxas Malfoy had been far too complicated to be love. And because he did not know what else to do, he sat at the rosewood desk that had been his father's, and did nothing.